


Martlet

by 221b_hound



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: M/M, Macbeth is somehow referenced as a romantic comedy, birds of a feather, odd couple, parallel storylines of two people and two birds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2017-12-22 02:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin Crieff watches as a house martin and a swift strike up an unlikely friendship while the man himself pines with unrequited love for the sky god in his life. When Douglas visits the attic to see the birds for himself, maybe love can at last take wing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever Cabin Pressure fic. I hope you like it.
> 
> Inspired by this [ Dreamwidth prompt.](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/6625.html?thread=12446945#cmt12446945)
> 
> _Sitting here watching the first Summer migrants swooping and darting about - swallows, swifts and house martins - got me thinking. Martin - the pilot and sometime wannabe aeroplane - has a bird's name and I haven't seen any fic that even mention it. And he lives in an attic. Under the eaves. Where the house martins (and swifts) build their nests and return every year. Something, anything, with this? And if you can work Douglas in there (friendship or slash, I don't care) I'll love you forever_

Martin Crieff sits at the window of his attic looking at the house martins, which are darting under the eaves, hunting insects. He wasn't named for the bird.  Truly, when he was little and discovered he shared a name with this creature of flight, he was disappointed: house martins are small, unremarkable birds after all. At the time he was relieved that no-one ever noticed the link. He has grown rather fond of them, though, especially the ones that nest by his attic window, and he looks for their return each summer.

In many ways, he still prefers the swifts. The humble martin is nothing like the swift. For all its plain, sooty brown plumage, the swift is always in the air, eating, sleeping and even having sex on the wing.  Swifts are true spirits of the sky. Martin Crieff was and is envious of their freedom.  Swifts don't have to move furniture in a clapped out old van to make ends, well, not meet exactly. Be less far apart. They just fly and fly and fly and fly, and that sounds both exhausting and utterly perfect.

However, in high school there was English and bloody William bloody Shakespeare and that kind teacher, who knew how Martin loved flying. Martin had struggled with the text of _Macbeth_ until the scene where the king arrives at Macbeth's castle, and Banquo’s speech about 'the temple-haunting martlet'. Mrs Allenby had quietly explained that the martlet was another name for a house martin, and how the bird was a symbol of fresh air and a welcoming home.   That teacher made the martin seem a bit special, really.

(The fact that by the end of the play, the Macbeths have betrayed their duties as hosts and both Banquo and King Duncan are dead is, Martin thinks, kind of ironic and also symbolic of his luck, and he minds less than he thought he would. It makes him feel quite sympathetic to the martins. It’s not their fault, after all, that Macbeth was treacherous.)

As Martin – sipping hot tea before going downstairs for his lift to the airfield – watches the birds from his attic window, he notices a swift. Its curved wings and forked tail are unmistakable, lending grace to its motion despite the plain brown feathers.  The martins at least have that flash of blue, a little flair for all that they are so small.

Speaking of which, there goes a house martin, flitting out to the larger bird, swooping and diving. For a moment, Martin thinks the martin is actually attacking the swift, but then he sees that it's more like the martin is chivvying the swift along, guiding it closer to the eaves. Swifts rarely land, and if they perch a while, it’s clinging to the sides of buildings and trees.  Sure enough, the martin is twittering about the swift as the swift wraps its small talons around something unseen at the side of the house.

Martin’s watch alarm pings. He sets down the now empty cup and tugs his captain’s hat over his ginger curls. He sets the hat at a rakish angle then, on second thoughts, sets it straight, picks up his overnight bag and leaves. Carolyn will be here to collect him in three minutes. He’s very much hoping to get the front seat today. Or to win the word game. At the very least, to make Douglas laugh. When he means to make him laugh. Douglas laughs at Martin a lot when that’s not Martin’s intention, but sometimes Martin manages to be genuinely funny, and Douglas genuinely laughs, and that keeps Martin warm for hours. Sometimes.

Captain Martin Crieff marches down the stairs. He hopes his house martins – _his temple-haunting martlets_ – find that the air _smells wooingly here_. He likes to think they enjoy living under his eaves.

**

Swoop and dart and there it is, in his beak, and down, fluttery, flittery, struggle then still, a tiny insect but his belly is tiny too and it’s fine, it’s good, it’s a hunt and done and flit flit flit the bugs have scattered but they are not fast like him, oh no, not as fast, not as quick and flit and snap and another one down, another peck closer to full and…

…and there is yesterday’s swift, the old one, with his beautiful wings and cutting the air like a like a… the martin doesn’t understand similes, but the old swift flies like wind made solid. The martin doesn’t really understand envy either, but there is an instant of _I wish,_ there and gone.

The old swift is beautiful and graceful and slow and that’s not right. Not right. Swifts are swift, not slow. They are their name. Swift:  air with a heartbeat. Swift on the wing all the time, fly fly fly, must be tiring, must be glorious, never having to stop and oh, it does look tired and it drops a bit. Not right. Swift on high, not low low down.

The martin flits out and around and around and sings at the swift and the swift sings back, breathless, less song, more sigh.

 _My nest, my nest, under my sheltering eaves, here, here, stop a moment_.

 _No_ , protests the swift, _never stop. Not ever. Sky god, me, and I’m small but I’m a king, king of the…_

And he drops and the martin drops with him, sings and circles and herds (the martin doesn’t know that word, doesn’t know that behaviour, but does it anyway) and the swift lets himself follow the flitting little silly thing and sees a hard-cold stick poking from the side of the Human nest and takes hold with his too-short legs (too short to stop anywhere for long; no need to launch again from here, but let go and fall and flap and be in the sky again, but this moment, stopping, just this moment, fine).

_Just a moment, not for long, must be going, must be gone. Sky god, me, things to do._

_Tell me, tell me,_ says the martin, settled under the eaves not far from the resting swift _, what things? What see you? What do? Tell me, tell me, what is it like? Fly fly fly all the time, wind-made-into-bird, what’s it like? Are the insects tastier? How close is the moon? Does it, does it hurt or is it like a, like a, like when those Human nests that move roar by, roar and make the air like a storm, is it like that? All the time? Like a rushing storm, rushing all along one direction?_

 _It’s all right,_ says the swift, nonchalant now he’s not falling and sighing for breath _, being a sky god, it’s all right, like a storm sometimes, but one you ride, not one that tumbles you here and about. It’s like, oh, I would say it’s like the opposite of when… you know when feathers are straggled and the air is cold and full of water, and you see a swift – or a martin, in your case – and you see their heart stop and the wings fold wrong and the air becomes empty and doesn’t hold you up and you fall? It’s the opposite of that._

 _Like sun and the air is solid under the wingbeat,_ suggests the martin _, and the bugs are big and juicy and it holds you up up, all of it, up?_

 _Just so,_ agrees the swift _, but all the time._

 _That sounds wonderful,_ says the martin _,_ and fluffs his feathers.

 _It is,_ says the swift, but he sounds a little tired. He pauses, stretches his wings and then says: _must be off. Sky gods fly, you know._

 _Come back tomorrow? a_ sks the martin, _tell me more?_

 _Oh, I might,_ says the swift, and drops from his perch, flaps his wings, flies up and up and away, twirling like an eddy in the air, to show that he can, oh yes, still he can.

**

Martin Crieff comes home every day from the airfield and leans on the windowsill, watching the martin. He’s surprised when one morning, he sees the swift again. It swoops in, finds some obscure perch under the eaves and sings, and the martin sings back.

Weird behaviour for swifts and martins, he thinks, then he thinks about weird behaviour for pilots.

He made Douglas laugh, properly laugh, _with_ and not _at_ him, twice yesterday. Twice more today. Three times last week, so his average is going up. Douglas has a lovely laugh. Rich and deep and somehow also soft and warm. Douglas has a laugh like a big feather bed, when it’s the right kind of laugh.

Martin tries not to think about how much he likes it. He tries not to think about how the sound of it goes straight through his ears and into his brain and into his heart and makes it race. (And sometimes the sound of it goes other places, which can make things a uncomfortable for a while on the flight deck. Those are the times he puts his hat on his lap and makes a bit of a big deal about combing his hair with his fingers and comments on  avoiding ‘hat hair’.)

Sometimes Martin doesn’t know if he loves or hates Douglas’s laugh, because of all the things it makes him want. But he does anything he can to hear it, so he must love it more than hate it after all.

Christ, it’s difficult, this unrequited love thing. But it’s better than no love at all. Well. Marginally.

Martin Crieff leaves an apple on the sill. It’s not for the birds, precisely. Neither the swift nor the martin eats fruit. But they do both eat the insects that will come for the fruit as it withers. He leaves the apple to bring the insects for the birds. He thinks of it as a kind of thank you to the martlet for making his attic room more exulted. _The air smells wooingly here_. And of decaying apple, a bit.

**

The swift likes its perch, for a little stay, not long, never long, but it’s nice, and so many insects nearby, it’s like the martin has a tiny kingdom full of food and shelter from the harsher winds and my, it is very lovely indeed to tell stories to the pretty martin, blue feathers flashing in the black and white. It asks so very many questions.

_And when it’s dark, when you fly fly fly, do the bugs taste different, the ones near the moon?_

_A little,_ concedes the swift, but he doesn’t know the words to describe how _, more moon-y, you know._

_Do you miss the ground, do you look at it and wonder what it would be like?_

_Oh no. The ground is the enemy. The things with teeth live there, and the moving Human nests, and the ground is death, you know that._

_Oh, of course, oh, yes, I know, I know, but I stop there sometimes, sometimes, tasty things down there, danger too, I know that. Not stupid, me, little but not stupid._

The swift cocks its head. _Brave, maybe._

The martin preens. _Maybe._

 _Better up here,_ says the swift _, look at the ground and not have to be **on** the ground. Interesting, down there, I suppose. I like it better here._

_You do?_

_Ask me some more questions._

The martin preens a little more.

**

“See, I told you.” Martin stands back to let Douglas lean against the window sill, so that he can see the two strange birds, which sound like they’re talking.

“So you did,” says Douglas, in a tone so approving that Martin instantly wonders if Douglas is teasing him.

“I did,” Martin insists, “they’ve been like that for weeks. I wouldn’t be surprised if they fly off together when the winter comes.”

“I believe you.”

“You do?” Martin is suspicious of Douglas’s motives for being so agreeable.

Douglas comes back inside the little attic room and leans against the wall, his arms folded. He’s smiling.

Martin loves and hates Douglas’s smile as well. It goes straight into the core of him, that smile, when it’s aimed at him (or not, to be fair).

“There are stranger pairings in the world,” says Douglas. His arms remain folded, his smile remains warm, and Martin is convinced he’s missed something important.

“Cats and dogs, I suppose,” says Martin dubiously.

“Those too.” That warm, lilting laugh is in Douglas’s voice, and Martin’s heart is pounding.

He lives for these moments, for that sound. He’s so glad Douglas agreed to come back to see the birds Martin’s been talking about for weeks, but now Douglas is here, Martin feels both exhilarated and afraid. But he wants this picture, in his head, of Douglas in his home. Standing by his bed. Nothing wrong with just wanting to see that, is there? Douglas, warm and smiling at him, here in his impoverished little attic home, admiring the temple-haunting martlet.

Douglas knew the reference, of course, when Martin had murmured it under his breath, after they’d spoken about the odd behaviour of the martin and the swift.

“Does the air smell _wooingly_ in your attic, Martin? Or does it smell of unwashed socks?”

Martin had bristled at the implication he was not clean. Poor, yes; a slob, no. “It smells fine. My flat smells like a flat. It smells like…”

“Febreze and scented candles?”

“ _Wooingly_ ,” Martin had said fiercely, and then at the lifting of Douglas’s eyebrow, Martin had blushed furiously.

“I think I should come and see these birds of yours,” Douglas had said.

And here they were.

“You were right,” says Douglas, and his smile is growing soft. Warm. Luscious.

Martin doesn’t know how a smile can be luscious, but Douglas’s definitely is. Time to call a stop to this. Gifting himself a little mental image to help him through the day is one thing. Tempting fate – tempting rejection: that is another thing entirely.

“About what?”

"Your birds, the martin and the swift. They've got nothing in common. They’re not even the same species. But look at them.” Douglas moves, and the intention is obviously that Martin should join him at the window and look at the birds again. Douglas holds the invitation open, one hand on the sill, the other extended to Martin, and Martin knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t resist. Just one more image, he thinks, and the impression of closeness, and his love-starved soul can feed on that for months (and maybe make him cry himself to sleep, but he always knew that there were costs to acquiring flashes of fact for his hopeless wanting).

Martin holds himself, muscles tightly bunched, trying to not touch Douglas (but wanting wanting wanting to) and leans slightly out of the window to see the birds.

And Douglas leans in behind him. Leans close and along him, hip to Martin’s hip, torso to Martin’s back, mouth alongside Martin’s flushed pink ear.

“It gets lonely,” says Douglas, voice soft and warm and downy like a feather bed, “Flying on your own all the time. But it’s good to have a friend. And we have one thing your birds don't. We are the same species.”

Douglas places his large, warm hand on the small of Martin’s back and flexes his fingers. “That’s good news, wouldn’t you say?”

Martin turns, and Douglas moves only just enough to let him, and there they are, face to face, chest to chest. Breath to breath.

“Don’t, don’t, don’t…” stammers Martin, “I… Douglas, I couldn’t stand it. If this is… if you’re…. I couldn’t stand it. If.”

Douglas only needs to lower his head a fraction, and his lips are on Martin’s.  Soft and warm, like his voice. Martin melts into it, into the heat and the gentleness and the hope.

For the briefest moment, Douglas draws back. He’s smiling again, that good smile, the one that is _with_ and not _at_. “Do you know, Martin, I believe the air does indeed smell… _wooingly_ , here.”

Martin’s reply is to press his body against Douglas’s, to press his mouth to that wonderful mouth above his, and kiss and kiss and kiss Douglas (and, oh, and oh, be kissed, be kissed in return) until his blood is singing with the joy of it.

When winter comes, the swift and the martin fly off together as predicted, and Martin makes a migration of his own, to Douglas’s house, where house martins and robins and swifts and all kinds of birds populate the garden come the spring.

House martins live under the eaves in the summer, flitting about, lively as a dance, and Douglas likes to declare that the air “nimbly and sweetly recommends itself unto our gentle senses.”

Martin teases Douglas about casting himself as the king, and then replies: “Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed, the air is delicate.” Sometimes, then, he attacks Douglas and tickles him into surrender.

After that they kiss and laugh, and do more besides.

The air does, indeed, smell wooingly there.


	2. Artwork for Martlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I mean to add this link and forgot! MXDP on Tumblr made this beautiful piece on commission for Tracionn. I'm so happy to see such a lovely drawing for this fic!

This is the link to [MXDP's Tumblr](http://mxdp.tumblr.com/post/60585774918/and-when-its-dark-when-you-fly-fly-fly-do-the)

 


End file.
